Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/178

164 &quot; Something not alien quite To tender ruth, perchance their breast shall fill, Seeing him that was so mobile grown so still, The fiery-veined so white. &quot; And when the dance is o’er, The pinched guitar, the smitten tambourine, Have ceased their rhythmic beat,—oh, friends of mine, On my rich bier, then pour &quot; The garlands that ye wear, The happy rose that on your bosom breathes, The fresh-culled clusters and the dewy wreaths That crown your fragrant hair. &quot; Though blind, I still shall see, Though dead, shall feel your presence and shall know, I who was beauty s life-long slave, shall so Win her in death to me. &quot; Thanks, sisters, and farewell! Back to your joys. My brother shall make room For my tried sword upon the high-piled bloom, And fire the pinnacle. &quot; My soul, pure flame, shall leap To meet its parent essence once again.